


Four Times Derek Hale Was an Outsider (And One Time He Belonged)

by bigbootsmanofwar



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Angst, Bottom Derek, Bottom Stiles Stilinski, F/M, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, M/M, Pining, Sexual Content, Slow Burn, Threesome - M/M/M, Unresolved Romantic Tension, mchaleinski
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-02
Updated: 2014-05-02
Packaged: 2018-01-21 14:34:26
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 22,139
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1553813
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bigbootsmanofwar/pseuds/bigbootsmanofwar
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's these little moments where he thinks they might be real friends, where he thinks this is normality he can grip onto and keep. He likes teaching them, likes watching them learn from him. And he's come to expect their noise of an afternoon, stretching well into the evening. On nights when they decide to stay, he listens to their heartbeats sync up all on their own, waiting until they've fallen into sleep until he does himself.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Four Times Derek Hale Was an Outsider (And One Time He Belonged)

**1.**

Derek hasn't had a home in a long time. Since he was a little kid, he thinks. Or a teenager. There's not much difference. He was as naïve as a little kid when he was a teenager, and he's learned from his mistakes. But the last time he had a real home was when he still had a family. He lost both in one fell swoop.

It's not the four walls that constituted his home, he realises. He knows that as soon as he goes back to the burned out husk of his childhood house, hoping for some kind of salve to the hurt he nursed. None came. The wood had burned away, the singe was still faint in the air if he really tried hard to find it. It was a house now. Not a home. Not his home.

He spent whole nights there, long nights, sleeping on the wood, hoping that the magic of the place would return for him. If he closed his eyes and pretended, he could hear his Mom and his Dad, his sisters screeching and laughing and yelling, running through the halls and irritating him. He'd give anything to let them irritate him again.

Sometimes, he stayed because he had nowhere else to go. There was no other family for him, and the nursing home had stopped letting him in to see Peter when he'd fallen asleep beside his bed one time too many. But he knew he could have found a place. Eventually. Rented somewhere. He didn't leave for the longest time because he didn't want to give up on his home. Even if it wasn't really home. And it never would be again.

New York was even less of a home. He knows how hard Laura tried to make it a home for the both of them, and he feels guilty that he couldn't feel the connection. She took him away from Beacon Hills, what had been his home, in the hopes that distance would help them.

That, and they were on the run. Kate was still alive, and for all they knew, she might be coming after them to finish the job. Wipe out the Hales completely. She wouldn't take that chance with him, even when he begged her in his moments of weakness to take him _home_.

Turns out, even if she had indulged him, it would have been an empty trip. Home didn't exist anymore.

He tried hard to feel at home in New York. He did. He knew Laura was just as broken as he was, and he knew that if he seemed like he was settling, then it might make her a little happier. For a good five years, all he cared about was making Laura happy. Laura was all he had left, and she looked after him. He owed it to her.

It wasn't that simple. The apartment they shared, small and poky, felt like a sanctuary sometimes. Not a home, but a small escape from the outside world, where everything was too loud and too brash and too much for him to take. They didn't dare use any of the money that would have been accessible to them.

Eventually, Laura cashed in the insurance. When she was sure paperwork wouldn't be traced back to them, when she was sure they were safe. Then there was money. Endless money. Blood money. Derek tried not to touch it. He didn't want it and he didn't deserve it.

It was only when Derek began to fall to pieces again, years after, when Laura had thought he was getting better, that she agreed to take them home.

Derek wishes he'd kept his mouth shut. If they'd stayed in New York, Laura would still be alive. And he wouldn't have guilt choking him every time he swallowed.

He won't even deign to call the train car close to home. It was a stepping stone. He'd needed shelter. His betas needed shelter. It was the best home he could provide for them, until it wasn't.

The loft is confusing. It's not home, doesn't feel like home, doesn't smell like home, but Derek's beginning to believe that home is a concept he should give up on. It's not as bad as the other places he's been, though. He can almost relax there. He liked when Isaac was with him, even if he's happier living with Scott.

It's still just brick and mortar and walls and windows, though. A poor substitute for something he can't recreate. But it's a poor substitute he's grown somewhat attached to. He's put furniture in. He has a bed that smells entirely of him, and it's warm, and it’s _soft_. He lets himself sleep in sometimes. He slept in at home.

It's a place just for him. He likes it that way.

It stops being that way when he opens it to teenagers. Well, he doesn't so much open it, as they pry it open. He thinks it's probably because he's the closest to adult supervision they're going to get in his loft, and while he understands, he still itches to have it back to himself.

Isaac's still around, when he's not with Allison. It's not Isaac he minds having there. Isaac's usually quiet enough, and sits with him in front of the television. Isaac feels like the closest thing there is to family. Even if he's a little more distant now. Even if he's really Scott's now.

No, it's the _other_ two. Scott and Stiles. It's almost impossible to say one of their names without adding the other. It rolls off his tongue, and it feels unnatural to say otherwise. They're a set, a pair, and if one's there, the other usually isn't far behind.

He doesn't know when they decided his loft was their second home. It must be sometime after the Alphas leave town, in pieces or not, and things settle. As much as they can settle, anyway, in this town. Things are quiet for a little while there, but Derek finds that quiet is worse for him. Leaves him time to think.

They start out spending afternoons there, commandeering his television with no regard for permission, but he lets them stay. He thinks sometimes he can see Stiles' face flicker with something he doesn't like, not a bit, and Scott's hand will rest in the small of his back until it disappears. Derek thinks the least he can do for these kids is let them crash in his loft.

They're loud, and they make a mess. He's always cleaning up crumbs from chips and pizza, scrubbing stains out of his sofa. Sometimes he tries not to think about what he's scrubbing. (Mostly it's Mountain Dew. That's OK.)

But for all their noise and mess and failure to ask him permission for anything, they bring a presence to the loft that Derek can't entirely resent. They sound a little like his siblings had used to, and he takes comfort in that.

The afternoons change, though, and then they're spending nights there. He assumes Melissa and John have said it's fine. He's on first name basis very tentatively, because he went to speak with both of them. Formally introduce himself. If he's going to be spending all this time with their sons, he thinks they should have met properly. And, as it turns out, he likes Melissa. She's kind, and more than capable. John still intimidates him. He doesn't let on, as much as he can.

It's no secret Scott and Stiles are together. They've never told anyone, never told him, but they make no secret of displaying it, either. They sit in each other's laps on his sofa, he's caught them kissing in his kitchen multiple times, Stiles sat on his counter, Scott standing between his legs with his hands on Stiles' hips.

He's never said anything about it, only forewarned them that if he comes home (home?) and can smell anything but arousal, he's confiscating their keys. So far, they've followed the rule. Or if they haven't, they've done a fantastic job of covering up the scent of come.

They usually sleep in Isaac's old bed, but a few times, Derek's slid into his and smelt the both of them on his sheets. He thinks he should tell them not to. He doesn't.

It's been a few months of this, this uneasy friendship between them, the quietness of the town, falling into a routine, when Derek begins to feel it change. The routine has happened all on its own, he hasn't enforced it. It's authentic, that way. Natural. They'll come to his after school most days, breaking the peace with loud voices and thumping feet, sometimes spreading their homework out over his kitchen table and teasing each other as they work.

Only recently has Derek started to sit with them, look over the material they're given. Some of it he remembers from his years at school. They'd read mostly the same books, and he quietly offers his thoughts. He'd be surprised to see how much of his thoughts make it into their essays. The math, though, is where he excels, and the boys fall flat. Stiles is a little better than Scott, but they're both not great.

Derek's mind savours numbers, the way they fit together and fall into place. There's one right answer, and he has to work to achieve it. He likes that. It's not always worth trying to explain it to them. He has to catch them in the right mood, when they _want_ to learn about it. If he does, he'll see Scott's face light up when his mind hooks into a problem and solves it on his own. He'll see Stiles' attention fall on a set of numbers and never waver, even if he's forgotten to take the pills that day. It's these little moments where he thinks they might be real friends, where he thinks this is normality he can grip onto and keep. He likes teaching them, likes watching them learn from him. And he's come to expect their noise of an afternoon, stretching well into the evening. On nights when they decide to stay, he listens to their heartbeats sync up all on their own, waiting until they've fallen into sleep until he does himself.

He's been for a job interview (he needs a job, purely to keep him occupied, rather than for the money), when he comes back to the loft. It's a nice afternoon, sunny, and the slacks and button down he's worn to look professional are too warm now. School's let out, but he hasn't thought about the boys being there when he opens the door.

He's met with the sound of laughter, and he steps inside, his chest constricting. They haven't noticed him yet, and they're still draped over one another on the sofa. Stiles' head is in Scott's lap, and Derek can see from where he is that for once, they're not joined at the mouth. They're just - together. They look so at _home_ that he can feel the chill beginning to seep in. Their home. Not his. And he has no place in this display.

Scott looks up abruptly, and he knows he's been caught out. The mood changes immediately, the ease and the laughter and the happiness gone, and Stiles sits up too, bolting upward, his hair mussed and sticking out all over the place.

"Hey! We didn't think you'd be back so soon," Scott says, and Derek can hear the guilt. He shrugs, kicks his shoes off, the warmth from his clothes suddenly uncomfortable. Too uncomfortable.

"Finished early," he explains, and he sounds too short. Shorter than he'd meant to. He can almost feel their simultaneous wince. Stiles runs a hand through his hair in an effort to tame it. It does nothing. They scramble away from each other quickly, quicker than they do whenever he catches them normally. He wonders what they've been up to, to look so guilty.

"So? How'd it go?" Stiles asks expectantly, as if he ought to have already explained the second he walked through the door. Stiles is impatient, is pretty much the first rule he's learned about the kid. They're no longer tangled up in each other, and Derek feels - bad.

Like he's intruded in their home. Not come back to his.

"Not sure," he answers, sitting at the table, distancing himself from them. He thinks they'd probably accommodate him on the sofa, but he isn't going to drive a bigger wedge between them. "It's not like I'm unqualified. I know how to operate a rig. Have to go back to school for the real stuff," he adds. The job he's gone for is pretty much grunt work. He wants to do the real work, the stuff paramedics do. But he'll settle for cleaning the rigs, driving them on occasion.

"Yeah, but you can totally do that," Scott waves off, like it's the easiest thing in the world to go back to college once he's already dropped out. Derek's eyes catch on his mouth, and he can see it's a little red. Swollen. So that's what they've been doing.

He thinks about staying, settling onto the sofa with them. Maybe telling them they can go back to lying in each other's laps. They don't have to stand on guard around him anymore. He wants them to be comfortable.

But they were already comfortable. It's his presence that's changed that. This is more their home than his. He stands, walks to the door, swipes his shoes back up and slides the door open.

"Whoa. Where you going, you just got home," Stiles protests, but Derek doesn't much feel like looking at his mouth and seeing it puffy, so he looks out the door instead, calling over his shoulder.

"Out. Forgot - food," he lies, and slams the door shut behind him. Had he stayed, he would have seen the disappointment on the boy's faces. Derek's loft doesn't have the same appeal without Derek in it.

**2.**

He's not the hugest fan of going out. He used to, when he was their age. He did it a lot, actually, went to a ton of parties full of laughing, dancing, kissing, fucking, people. He liked being around the _life,_ liked being able to hear it thrum in his ears and his blood, knowing he was a part of it.

After, it changed, and it became a bit too much for him. Too loud, too alive, too happy. He went out a few times in New York, but the club scene was different to what he was used to. Especially when he was feeling brash enough to go to his first gay bar. The music seemed louder, and the _smell_ was a lot worse. But he liked the looks he received in there, let someone buy him a drink.

(He didn't let him do the rest of what he'd wanted. He went home and sat in his room and thought about what he might have done).

He knows they like going out, though. Since things settled, they go out a lot. Usually, they come back to his, because they're drunk and giggly and usually want to screw around, and they can't do that at their houses. Not unless either Melissa or John's on night shift.

There's not even any question where they're going. They come back and trail glitter through the loft, glitter he has to clean up in the morning, and he can never quite catch it _all_. Sometimes, when they're particularly buzzed, and he's still up, they'll laugh and nudge him around, and he can smell fruity drinks on their breath. He thinks they'd probably taste like cocktails. Stiles always, always smells like pineapple, but Scott changes. Once he thought he smelled something stronger, like whiskey, on his breath, but he said nothing.

He's not their parent.

He does think, though, at this point, that they're friends. They feel like friends now, he laughs with them on occasion, though they're always the ones doing most of the laughing. They spend more and more time with him until it's become an unspoken rule that he never spends Friday night alone. They're always there, with some terrible movie or another. (He kind of loved Pacific Rim, though, he'll admit.)

They ask him, all the time, to go out with them. And it's not _where_ they're going that he has the problem with. He's been to gay bars before, Jungle would be no different. He wouldn't be uncomfortable there, not for the reasons they probably think. It's more that it will be loud, and he knows all they'll do is dance all night, and probably drink and kiss and writhe against one another. If he wants to watch that, he can do it at home.

And there'll be nothing for him to do, while they're together. He won't dance. Is pretty adamant that he won't. He's never been all that into that, even when he did like parties. He liked the talking and the watching.

After all that refusing, and waiting at home for them to return, he's not quite sure how he ended up crumbling, then. Actually, he does know. He knows, and he just doesn't want to face it.

He's used to not spending his Friday nights alone, and they want to go out. And they're begging him to come with. He says no, for a while. He spent years being fine on his own, on all the nights, not just Fridays, he can deal with it now.

But Stiles' face flickers with frustration, and Scott's eyes are on him, not wavering, not ducking back to Stiles the way they so often do. They're on him, _all_ him.

And he says yes.

The whoops of surprise are almost enough to make him grin. Instead, he grumbles under his breath, and gets up to throw on a pair of jeans that don't have speckles of what he thinks is probably blood, and maybe cheese. Stiles is making some sly little remark about tearing holes in one of his Henleys, and then he'll fit right in, but one look quells him.

He won't lie and say he hasn't looked at them both when they get dressed up. Scott forced Stiles into clothes that fit him, that don't hang off him, once, and he's slowly been doing it more and more. When they go out, he wears what Derek thinks are the tightest jeans he's ever seen, and the first few times, when he closes his eyes, it's all he sees.

Scott's the surprise, though. Derek expected Stiles to do all kinds of stupid shit to himself. He's dyed colours into his hair on more than one occasion, colours that wash out the next morning down his drain, that stain the tiles of his shower. He's let Lydia dab his lips in gloss a few times, but that's as much as he'll do.

Scott's all for everything. His face lights up as he's rubbing glittery gel into Stiles' hair so they shine under the lights, he smears gloss onto his own lips happily, dots those shimmery stick on jewels at the corners of his eyes, makes patterns of them on Stiles' skin.

Derek's favourite was the sparkling triskelion Scott formed on Stiles' cheek. When they were passed out after, sprawled in their bed (it's theirs now, not Isaac's), he snapped a photo with his phone. He likes looking at it.

Tonight, they've gone all out, and he looks almost boring in comparison. They're glittering and shining with every movement, both in clothes so tight he wants to slide his fingers underneath the material just to see if there's room for them. Scott's lips are shimmering, tinged pink. He wonders what it would taste like.

"Come on, just a little bit," Scott's wheedling, waving the tube at him. It oozes out just a little at the tip, and he drags his mind out of the gutter. Snorting, he shakes his head.

"No. You're not putting that shit on me," he answers, but he's more amused than anything. He still won't wear it, even if he could probably see himself licking it off them.

Scott deflates, but it won't change his mind. He's getting used to the little puppy dog routine they both try to pull on him. Scott hasn't learned yet to just order him to do it. Derek would. If he got the order from Scott. He's tempted to tell the kid he'd like a couple, likes the rush that his wolf gets from obeying.

As he's walking out the door, he thinks he's escaped them trying to pretty him up, but as he steps out into the hall, he's caught unawares, two teenage boys grabbing an arm each, holding him in place for a split second and kissing him smack in the middle of each cheek.

He stays frozen for a moment, shocked, and peals of laughter bounce off the walls as they dart away from him, pleased with themselves.

"Sucker," Stiles is crowing, Scott's face aglow with self-satisfaction as he looks back at him over his shoulder. He can feel the gloss on his skin, in what he suspects, if he looked in the mirror, would be two perfectly formed lip marks.

"Brats," he mutters, and Scott's elated laugh curls his stomach into little twitchy ribbons of - something. He's not sure what.

They're still laughing about it as they pile into the Camaro, all squeezing onto the bench seat, so he can smell Scott's deodorant beside him. It's as he's parking and they bound out of the car like cooped up puppies, except puppies that are pressing kisses to each other's jaws, that he thinks this wasn't the best idea.

He can already hear the _thump_ of music, and they're fucking already all over each other. But he can't duck out now, and Stiles is tugging impatiently at his shirt until he moves, following them inside.

It's packed. Loud. It stinks. And they're absolutely delighted.

So he shuts up, watches them dart into the crowd, hands clasped together tight, and finds a vacant seat at the bar where he can still see them easily. They're not hard to miss, even if there's bodies all around them. They shine. They stand out. He can't tear his eyes away.

They're here barely a minute, and they've got their hands around each other, moving in perfect sync with the beat and the others around them. It's effortless. He can see Stiles' mouth moving, curving around the words to whatever's playing. He vaguely recognises it as some souped up version of a top 40 song the boys like to play (and he sticks on sometimes, too).

He's not sure how long he watches them, but the songs change, and the strobe lights change colours a few hundred times, and they just keep moving. Their mouths have met more than once, and Derek watches Scott's hand slide down to Stiles' ass, sees Stiles hitch his leg up a little against Scott and _grind_.

He almost forgets he's here essentially on his own, until he hears a voice in his ear, startling him.

"They yours?" it asks him.

He turns, and there's a man beside him, watching him with a curious grin, waiting for an answer. He's about Derek's age, he thinks, but he's smaller, his hair is sandy. He smells like too much aftershave. His head's jerked to Scott and Stiles out there, where Derek's eyes have been all night.

He thinks about the question. He knows how it's meant. He likes how it's meant. In fact, he's tempted to say yes. Yes, they're his. No, you can't touch them. Don't even look at them. He knows everyone's probably watching them, though. He doesn't know how they couldn't.

They're not his, though. That's a lie. They belong to themselves, first and foremost, and then to each other. Not him. He doesn't even factor in. He's - what?

Friend?

Beta?

Designated driver?

The guy's still waiting for his answer, and Derek's eyes slide back to the boys. The music's slowed, they're pressed against one another, murmuring something against each other's lips. He can't quite hear what it is.

"No," he answers finally.

"Huh. Thought they might be, way you've been watching them all night," the guy replies, his own eyes sliding out to the dance floor. "Don't think I'd be able to get in between there, though," he laments. Derek's glad he's acknowledged that. "So, how about I buy you a drink instead? If neither of us can have them?"

He's perfectly pleasant about it, and he offers Derek a smile. Derek re-evaluates. He's attractive. Sort of. He should be, Derek knows he should, but the attraction isn't there. It's with a chill that spills down the knobs of his spine, like cold water down the back of his shirt, that he realises every scrap of his attraction is out _there,_ with them.

"Sorry. I'm theirs," he says in way of explanation, and feels like a bit of an asshole when he stands, moves away, leaves the perfectly nice guy behind.

He makes his way out to where they're rocking together, squeezing in between dancing couples, brushing off the few little nudges he gets to dance. They're so wrapped up in each other that they don't notice him until he's right there.

"Derek, dance with us, come on!" Stiles is saying, enthusiasm slurring his words a little. Or it could be the drinks they've been downing in between dances. He makes sure their drinks are clean, each time, from his distance.

Scott's fingers wrap around his wrist, try to pull him in with them, but his eyes are still on Stiles' lips, smeared from all the kissing he's been doing, and Derek shakes his head, tugs his wrist out of the grip. He leans in, pulls the car keys out of his pocket, and slides them into Scott's back pocket, his palm flush against the boy's ass for just a second.

"I'm going home. One scratch on my car, I'll have both your heads," he growls into Scott's ear, and imagines the shudder it causes.

He leaves quickly, and he doesn't hear them trying to call him back.

They smell like come and alcohol and they're not as happy as usual when they get home, (home? the loft, not home), passing out on the sofa, Stiles' jeans halfway pulled down, like they intended to fool around, and fell asleep before they could start.

They're out cold, really and properly, he can tell from the way they're breathing, deep and heavy and even, and it's only that knowledge that allows him to help out.

He scoops them up easily, one at a time, draped over his shoulder carefully. They both grumble in their sleep when they're separated, and he bites his lip to keep from laughing. Or crying. He doesn't know which would happen.

He feels indescribably _wrong_ rolling their jeans off, tries not to look too closely, though he wants to, and lays them down beside each other in bed, draping a blanket over their bodies, which have already gravitated back to each other, legs tangling up in a way that's going to be uncomfortable when they wake up.

They're still shining, but it's worn off a little now, like the sheen lipstick loses after hours of wear.

He goes back to his own bed, and doesn't acknowledge how empty it is.

He dreams about saying yes. They're his.

**3.**

Sometimes, back when they were fighting for their lives, Derek forgot that they were teenagers. He forgot that they were really only kids, the way he'd been when everything had gone to shit in his life. It's harder to forget that now, because they have a chance to actually act their age, and they do, often.

They're so childish at times that it astonishes him, because he's seen Scott have to make the kind of decisions no seventeen year old should ever make, he's seen the boy he caught in the woods, his woods, grow up too fast, and he's seen the toll that's taken. It makes him - old, sometimes. Like Derek. But then he turns around and smears chocolate all over Stiles' mouth purely so he can kiss it off, and he's a kid again.

Stiles, too. Stiles is the same sarcastic, snarky little asshole that he was back then, but he's aged just the same as all of them. He's dark. Darker than he ever was. Behind the cutting little remarks and the jokes and the snideness, there are flickers of something threatening to burst through. Scott is the only person he's ever seen who can control that, and all with a single touch, or a word murmured into his ear.

And yet. Stiles will happily spend whole afternoons playing hide and seek in the woods with the rest of the pack, good-naturedly whining about how unfair of a game it is since he doesn't have super-senses. He'll roll around in piles of leaves with Allison, under the guise of being taught how to hunt. Really, they're just like toddlers grappling at each other.

Derek never partakes in the games they play, but he's there. Scott ensures that he is. He learned to stop saying no when the Alpha tells him the pack's going to be meeting that day, and he better be there. It got harder and harder each time he did, until eventually, he gave in, and it felt _good_. He likes to watch. Scott seems to be OK with that.

One of the indulgences they allow themselves that Derek still finds surprises him, is lacrosse. It seems like such an inconsequential thing, trivial, for kids who have normal lives with normal hobbies. And, as Stiles has made very clear, that's exactly why they like it. He still has to learn how to adjust to life with little to no threats to him or the people he loves, and it's proving difficult. Lydia, on one of the rare occasions she hung back with him, sitting beside him on the hood of the Camaro, told him that he was still living in a wartime mentality, and that this was civilian life. She sounded so matter of fact he didn't quite dare arguing with her.

The more he thinks about it, anyway, the truer it seems.

He's doing it, slowly. Adjusting. It's not all terrible. He can say with certainty now that he has friends. They're probably not all healthy friendships, because most everyone he knows is a teenager, but they're teenagers who like him, and talk to him, and spend time with him, and if he spends a good chunk of his time fantasising about two of them, well. He can keep that firmly to himself.

He finds that Scott and Stiles aren't his be all, end all of friendship. Isaac drifts back to him after a little while, and Derek understands perfectly that he'd needed time _away_. He'd made some pretty massive mistakes when it came to that kid, but their wolves are always drawn to each other, biology linking them up like family.

The humans are the surprise. Allison, particularly. He'd spend a lot of time trying not to look at her, think about her, let her cross his path. She looks like Kate in the right sun, and when she opens her mouth and snaps, she _sounds_ like Kate, too. He doesn't think he's ever going to be best friends with her, and she doesn't ever want to be best friends with him. That's fine. Too much bad blood between them for that.

But they talk. About stupid little things, really. Scott, at first. A tentative alliance in the interests of keeping him safe. Derek's all for that. But out of nowhere, she started talking about Isaac, too, how fucking irritating he was sometimes. He offered up a complaint about how the majority of them pronounced a whole lot of supernatural stuff wrong, and pretty soon, they had real conversations.

He knows, though, in his bones, in the pit of his stomach, that as much as he might enjoy their company sometimes, these are people who belong to Scott. They'll always be Scott's pack, and their loyalties lie with him. He knows Scott thinks Derek is one of them, and he doesn't correct him, mostly because then he'll have to explain that Scott doesn't act like an Alpha to him, and that he's the odd one out, and he doesn't want to lay any kind of burden of guilt on the kid's shoulders.

He's grateful enough that he's included even a little.

Teenagers wear on his nerves, though, more than sometimes. He knows he's got to be pretty emotionally stunted himself (understatement), but he's still an adult, and they're still - not. They bitch and moan and fight over the stupidest things. Stiles and Scott argue over who cheated off who on tests, and who gets paid more attention, and the ridiculous tension between them in the loft is unbearable. They both refuse to leave too. He made the mistake of asking why once, and he got two angry, childish responses.

"I'm not fucking leaving because he's a moron!"

"This is as much my place as his, he can leave if he's so bothered."

Derek pointed out with an infuriated, nasty remark that this was his fucking home, not theirs, and they were acting like toddlers. He couldn't take the petty teenage bullshit sometimes.

Those were the times he wished he had friends his own age. But all his friends from high school had slowly drifted away, moved away, and even though some were still here, they didn't know what to say to him, and he didn't know what to say to them. He couldn't go seek refuge with the boys he'd played basketball with, nor the few girls he'd met through Paige. They outgrew him, and his problems were too much for him to take to anyone, let alone humans who had no real clue of what his life had become.

'I'm surrounded by kids who can't keep it in their pants, and they make me wanna kill something sometimes. Oh, and I'm trying to work out how to stop grieving but it doesn't really work. I haven't had sex in about a year and a half now, and I fantasise about screwing around with underage boys who are in love with each other. How's things with you?'

It's just not an option.

Even if the rest of his family had been around, he didn't know if it would have been any different. Cora stayed for a week or so after he saved her, but she was shook up, and they both agreed that getting out of here was better for her. She sent him emails once a week, or thereabouts, but she had other friends, family she'd made, not one she was born with.

Peter got the hell out of dodge, he's assuming, in the middle of the fight that almost killed the whole lot of them, and he hasn't heard from the man since. He misses him, bizarrely, on occasion, for reasons he really can't explain, other than the longing for blood, even if that blood's betrayed him a hundred times over. He wouldn't share his troubles with Peter, anyway.

The only options, the only other people he knows well enough to talk to, and who know his troubles, are John and Melissa. And it's _weird._ They're adults, real adults, with real jobs, and kids (kids he has feelings for, it's so fucked up), and he's only the sort of adult that hasn't really figured much out yet except that he's sick of teenagers.

Still, they're kind enough about it. He favoured Melissa, because she was far less intimidating to him than John. After the first few times he showed up awkwardly at the house, knowing she'd be home, she told him to just come to the hospital if he was sick of her son. Said it with as much fondness as only a mother could.

"That's where I go to escape all the adolescent drama," she'd laughed. "No one's going to mind too much if you keep out of the way."

When Allison and Isaac began to fidget together on his sofa, Stiles and Scott were stuffing Cheetos into their mouths at a rate which was truly disgusting, Kira and Lydia sat talking far too quickly and rapid-fire about colleges, and he had literally no refuge from the noise and the smell and the _trivialism_ of teenagers, he followed her advice, and showed up in the ER.

She'd laughed her ass off when she saw him, sat him down in the messy, sticky tea room and looked at him like he was Scott.

"You look like you're about to have an aneurysm. Sit here and enjoy the quiet," she'd instructed him. He did for a good while, until the need to tidy tugged at him, and he'd moved to wipe down benches that practically made his skin crawl, put magazines in neat piles, and lined up the stained coffee mugs.

He got invited back enthusiastically.

But it's strange every time she looks at him, and he can see the motherly affection that he sees when she looks at Scott and Stiles. He's not a kid like them, even if he probably seems it to her.

He swallows his pride and goes to the station, hovering awkwardly outside John's office until he's let in.

"What can I do for you, son?" John asks, and he looks a little confused as to Derek's presence here. He regrets coming immediately.

"I just - nothing, sir. Don't worry about it," he says after a moment, kicking himself internally for even thinking about this. He turns on his heel to leave, but John clears his throat behind him, and he looks back over his shoulder.

"My kid barged into your place again?" he asks, raising a brow. Derek hesitates, before nodding.

"He was invited, but he's a pain in the ass. They all are. Needed a bit of adult company," he says almost apologetically. A short bark of a laugh leaves the older man, and he shakes his head, the corners of his eyes crinkling up at the corners. He's lined with laugh lines, and Derek hopes he looks like that one day.

"God knows you don't have enough of that, Derek. Don't know how you stand them all the time. Couple of guns need firing, you wanna come down to the range and give me a hand," he offers, clapping a hand on Derek's shoulder and moving past him.

It still feels more like he's being treated as some kid to indulge than another adult, but he'll take it. It's a break from enduring hours upon hours of teenagers in his home, watching them and trying to carve out his own little space between them. He's not young enough to engage with half their shit, but he's not old enough to pretend he's above it all, either.

Eventually, though, it becomes less awkward. He feels less like he's intruding, and they become a lot warmer with him. It's like they're friends, in a way, except that he still feels like a child to them. He supposes he can't blame them: he's not that much older than their kids. And he's as lost as them. He must seem so very young.

They're two separate groups, the teenagers, and the parents, and he doesn't really belong to either. He lives out there in the middle of the two, in limbo, not quite right to fit either. He certainly spends more time with the teenagers, but that might have something to do with the fact that they seem to want him around. And he's inclined to give them what they want.

His failure to fit, though, becomes suddenly prevalent when he's invited to see them play one Friday night. It's their night, and he can't really say no. He's never seen one of their games before, never really understood lacrosse, even if he's seen them practising together out in the clearings on his property, when he takes them out there. But Stiles tells him so enthusiastically that Coach has promised to put him in the game this time that Derek promises he'll be there.

He doesn't realise how awkward this is going to be for him until he ambles into the stands with the rest of the onlookers. Allison and Lydia have decided to set up camp as makeshift cheerleaders, which really means that they're just going to scream encouragements, and knowing Lydia, insults at the other team, from the bleachers. But he can't really sit with them while they're surrounded by the rest of their friends.

No, instead, he finds that a space has been saved for him by Melissa and John. They wave him over, and his stomach sinks. He's assigned to the parents' area. He knows it's the boys who have arranged this, because they would have told their parents he was coming. He's a parent.

Still, he's pleasant about it, even if he feels a little sick with disappointment that he has absolutely no right to. They stand together, rugged up, their breath visible on the air, the anticipation high in the air.

"How's the job going, Derek?" John asks while they wait for the teams to come out, the chatter and buzz of the field and everyone there thrumming around them.

"OK," he answers, hands shoved into his pockets. "It's just menial stuff. Cleaning the rigs. They let me order supplies now. Guess I've proved I really do know my way around it all," he adds, letting just a hint of pride seep out into his tone. He likes the fact that they know what he’s doing. The ambulances around Beacon might not get that much use anymore, but they're often called to other towns. He likes helping, even indirectly.

"Given any more thought about going back to school?" Melissa asks, and he can see the surprise written all over John's face. He hasn't told the man about any of those kinds of plans, only tentatively confided in Melissa, since she's sort of in the field.

"Not much. A little," he offers finally. He's thought a lot about it, actually. He doesn't know if he wants to. On one hand, he knows he has to do _something_ with his life, because there's a lot more of it to come, and he can't stay as lost as he is right now. A degree could help him. But on the other hand, he doesn't want to leave the little things he has here. He doesn't want to leave the few friends he has.

Who's he kidding? He doesn't want to leave Scott and Stiles.

Before either adult can say any more, the crowd surges up into a roar, and Derek's focus hones in on the field, seeking out the two boys. He finds them immediately, knows them well by now. Scott's at the forefront, but Stiles is right beside him, and though Derek can't see through his helmet, he thinks the kid must be _beaming._

For a game he's never understood, he's strangely invested, joining in the cheers when BH scores, following the movements of the players with his eyes, chest tightening when either one of them get smacked to the ground. It doesn't make him feel like any less of a parent when he worries about them so damn much, waiting for them to jump back up, but he can't help it. Maybe it's because in so many of his nightmares, he sees them lying motionless, the life gone from their bodies.

They win. Which apparently, is a surprise to everyone but Derek. There's delighted whoops all around him, and he wonders whether they expected a failure. He was expecting brilliance, but he might be biased. The rest of the crowd begins to disperse slowly, the air mostly happy and celebratory, but the three of them stay where they are, waiting for the boys.

It doesn't take long before he can scent them on the air, but it's only a second after that he's almost tackled to the ground, hit hard in the chest by the both of them throwing themselves at him, still decked out in all their gear, minus the helmets.

He lets out a surprised grunt and stumbles back, but wraps an arm around their waists for a second before remembering their parents are right there.

"Dude, did you see? I totally scored, it was amazing!" Stiles is babbling into his ear, one arm clinging tight around his neck while Scott's does the same from the other side. They let go, and he's shell-shocked, watching them bounce in front of him happily, voices quick and high and proud.

Melissa's eyeing him with an expression he can't pinpoint at the moment, and John just looks downright amused, in that fond, tired kind of way he adopts often.

"It was completely amazing, he was like the Flash or something!" Scott's concurring, waving his arms around just the same as Stiles does, and Derek can't hold back the grin. That much time around each other, and they're bound to pick up each other's habits.

"Yeah, I saw," he answers, and they both light up. "Not bad." More than not bad, but the way his mouth curls up wider into a grin, he knows they see he's teasing.

"Not bad," Stiles scoffs, nudging their shoulders together. "Fucking amazing, and you know it. Just for that, you're buying us celebratory burgers," he orders, like Derek doesn't pay for the vast multitude of their food.

Before he can even pretend to argue, John clears his throat, and looks them all over like they're acting like distracted children. It wouldn't be that off base.

"Get them home at a reasonable hour," he says to Derek, voice a little gruff the way he remembers his own father's being when he was serious. He knows by now that home is as likely to mean his loft as their actual homes.

"Yes, sir," he answers, nodding, and - while he might be just like the teenagers, sometimes, he figures this is the upside of being a parent, too. Being handed responsibility of them.

The things he could do with that responsibility. The things he tells himself he won't.

"Yeah, yeah, come on, I want burgers, let's _go_ ," Stiles wheedles, grabbing Scott's hand in one of his own, dragging him in close, and grabbing Derek's with the other, doing the same, so they're both extensions of him, almost.

"I scored, too," Scott says, bouncing up on his toes to talk quietly into Derek's ear, leaning over Stiles' chest, close enough that his breath tickles the skin. He can feel his heart rate speeding up to sync with their over-excited ones.

"I saw that, too," he answers, hyper aware that Stiles is still holding his hand, leading the both of them back to his Jeep. "You're both very impressive, I was swooning in the stands. That what you wanna hear?" he adds drily. They both snort with laughter, and he ignores the urge to take Stiles' hand again when his own is dropped.

"What about the declaration of undying love?" Scott adds, sounding indignant as he clambers into the passenger seat, scooting over so Derek has room beside him.

"Yeah, and the confession that you want our young, supple lacrosse bodies," Stiles throws in, hauling himself into the driver's seat. The sound of him turning over the engine covers up the choked splutter that comes from Derek, but they see, and laugh their asses off, anyway.

He knows what he'll be jerking off to tonight, then. Or in the morning, rather. He won't do it when there's another wolf in the loft, and he tends to moan their names when he's really out of control. It'd be a fucking disaster if Scott heard that.

There's really only the one diner to go to, the one they frequent pretty often nowadays, and it's already packed with happy, loud, giddy high school kids when they arrive. Stiles is a self-proclaimed master of stealth, though, and he manages to dart through the crowd to nab them a just vacated booth.

The boys squeeze in on one side, and they're so completely squished together there's room for him in there with them. He chooses not to risk it, instead sliding into the other entirely free side on his own. If they look a little put out, it soon disappears, replaced by grins and laughter and teasing, a play by play of each of their shining moments on the field with a few interjections from Derek, providing much needed humility.

"You got to come to more games, man," Stiles says through a mouthful of fries and burgers, and Derek's pretty sure he can see each half mashed up ingredient in there. He scrunches up his nose in disgust, waits for Stiles to swallow, and takes a sip of his own thickshake. He might have paid, but they've pretty much ordered for him. He'd forgotten how much he liked greasy, awful diner food before they took him out.

"I'll come to the ones you both actually play in," he compromises. He'll probably end up a fervent spectator at all of them, like they want, eventually, but for now, he's going to keep his dignity intact and set some standards.

"You don't wanna come see me play?" Scott asks, and for a moment, he looks so goddamn hurt that Derek wants to take it all back and promise, swear, that he'll watch every second of every game, and - god.

He's so far fucking gone.

Before he can backtrack even in the slightest, though, Stiles nudges Scott's shoulder with his own, and his outburst of laughter is muffled in against the Alpha's neck, his own body shaking with mirth.

"You looked so freaked!" he's giggling, and now Scott's face is cracking into a grin, too, half sheepish, half entirely self-satisfied.

They were playing him.

And he didn't even realise. What's worse, he _did_ realise something. That he might actually be in love with these two idiots. Love. Something he doesn't let himself feel much at all of these days. His stomach curdles. The thickshake threatens to come back up. He feels sick.

He's gone and let himself believe that this could actually happen, that Scott and Stiles hadn’t hopelessly fallen for each other, that they might share some of that affection with him. But they won't. Because he's seen just how wrapped up in each other they are. There's nothing else that _matters_ to them, but each other.

The giggles and the smugness have died away now, because he's been silent a long time, and he thinks his face probably shows just how sick he feels.

"Der? You OK? We were just - kidding," Scott says unsurely, leaning forward over the table to try to catch his eye.

He stands abruptly, fights his way out of the booth, turns. Doesn't even bother with any kind of explanation, because if he opens his mouth, he might throw up, and leaves without a word.

He regrets it later, when he's lying in bed alone, when he hears the loft door slide open, and instead of barely hushed laughs and the sound of kisses being shared, there's only the slowed, careful heartbeats of (his) boys, whispers until they fall into bed together. They're quiet. Unhappy.

And he can't bring himself to fix it. Because if he fixes it, he's going to give in and be selfish, and _want_ them even more than he does now.

He just can't.

**4.**

Things change for a little while when they hit senior year. There's less teenage presence in his loft, and while he counts this as a blessing at times, when he just wants to walk around naked and enjoy the peace and quiet, read out on his balcony, it's lonely too.

He's had a good year or so to grow dependent on the noise and the bustle and the mess of the boys. But they have a hell of a lot more work to do this year, and he knows they're both buckling down. They want to go to college, badly. It's all they talk about lately. How they're going to go to college together, live together, join a frat and go to parties together. Derek wouldn't be at all surprised if they got engaged in college, either. There's no breaking them up. He's known that for a long time.

Their absence makes him wonder, though. Was it his aloofness that had changed things? He was trying not to grow more attached to them, though he suspects daily that it's either failing, or he was too late. He misses them.

But it's good practise, he supposes, because he's going to miss them when they jet off out of this town together, and he just has to deal with it. It's better to start now than go cold turkey at the end of the year.

The decision empowers him. They're getting out of here, and he wants to as well. Jesus, he wants to. It's taken him a long time to understand that, but he wants out of this place. It's mostly bad memories everywhere, even if the beginnings of a new life have their tendrils here.

He wants to see other places. Build a whole new life for himself. He won't be this drifting, lost mess anymore. He might not _deserve_ better than this, but he wants it.

And he's going to make it happen for himself.

The determination to do so distracts from missing them so much. But only a little. While he's deciding to get his shit in order, he tells himself, very privately, in those moments that are completely his and no one else's, that if he resembles a person more, then he might be able to find someone like Scott and Stiles have done. He's never indulgent enough to allow himself to believe bettering himself might endear them to him.

They do still come around. It's just much less often. The Friday nights lapse a little, but they still spend the majority of them together. Usually, watching movies, or playing drinking games they've invented that are absolutely absurd. Sometimes they bring homework, because they have so much of it, and Derek tries his best to help.

He has his own homework, of a sort, but he doesn't show them. He's been doing research. College. He can go back if he wants to, he's discovered. He knew he had the money to do so, all along, but it had been the unsureness of whether or not he could face going back to a place he'd failed at. He won't go back to the same college, though. Not ever. There were people there he knew, when he was a mess. Even more of a mess than now. If he wants to be better, he won't ever see them again.

He can use the credits he'd earned from before, though. Melissa helped him find it all out. She was over the moon that he'd decided to do so, and had volunteered herself for assistance. He'd made her promise to keep it secret, and she hadn't even asked why. He liked her.

He's not totally sure why he doesn't tell the boys, at first. Maybe because they're so fucking excited about going to college, about their plans, about their new lives together, that he feels like he's - copying. Mimicking their choices, doing the same thing himself like he's a teenager with them, even though by now, he should have _finished_ college, he should be a real adult.

He cuts himself a little slack. He's had shit to deal with. Even he can acknowledge that now.

"Dad would totally let you be Deputy. Or, you know, maybe not _Deputy_ , but he'd let you be a cop," Stiles tells him one afternoon, when they're gracing him with their presence again. He sounds sincere. Eager.

Derek snorts.

"No, thank you," he answers, slapping the pieces of bread he's holding together over a slab of chicken and lettuce. "I have no interest in being a cop," he adds, sitting down at the kitchen table with them and peering at their books. They've got history today, he can see highlighted dates all down the pages, names in pink and scribbled notes in the margin. Stiles' handwriting is a messy scrawl, like his thoughts came way too fast, all at once. Scott's is neat, block letters, planned and careful. Suits them.

"You have no interest in being _anything_ ," Stiles moans, and Derek doesn't even need to look a little hurt for Scott to elbow him hard in the side. He looks up, mildly outraged, genuinely unaware he's done something wrong, before Derek can see his mind back-tracking, and regret flickers.

"Oh. Sorry, man. I mean -- I've never seen you express any kind of interest in any kind of career," he amends, and yeah, phrased like that, it doesn't sting.

"You didn't know what you were gonna do til like, a month ago," Scott retorts, but he's grinning while he says it, and Stiles nips at his bottom lip in retaliation before turning back to Derek.

"So? Is there anything in the world you wanna do when you grow up?" he asks, eyes steady and focused on Derek, the way they have been recently. Derek's not sure whether he's upped his dosage, or if he's really just getting better at controlling himself. Either way, it helps. He seems older.

"I don't know," he grumbles through a mouthful of sandwich. Lie. He knows. But he's still not telling them.

Stiles opens his mouth to, presumably, continue the interrogation, but Scott cuts him off.

"Leave him alone. If he doesn't know, he doesn't know, drop it," he says firmly. Stiles does as he's told, for once. Derek might tease him about it at a later point, point out that he's become as obedient as any of the wolves, but for now, he feels a rising irritation. He's indignant. He does know. He has a plan. He's working on it, he doesn't need the pity.

"I'm going to college," he snaps, before amending his tone, knowing he's being a dick for no real reason at all. "If I get in,'" he adds, a little apologetic.

They're silent for a minute, before Scott's eyes almost pop out of his head.

"Holy shit, really? That's so awesome!" he's exclaiming, their notebooks abandoned in the glee Derek can feel quickly filling the room. Stiles is leaning forward over the table toward him, grinning.

"You'll totally get in, you're smart," he assures quickly, before the curiosity takes him over again. "This is so cool. What are you doing? Where are you gonna go? Oh, you're gonna have to go back as mature age, you'll be so old, dude," he rattles off, eyes shining.

This was either a mistake, or something wonderful. He's not sure which. They haven't been this happy with him in a long time, all smiles and encouragements. But now he has to answer the questions. And he doesn't know all the answers.

"Paramedicine," he begins. "Gonna do the same thing I was doing before, just actually complete it this time. I don't know where I'm going. I mean. I applied to a whole bunch of them. They're specialised institutes, all over the country. LA. San Francisco. Arizona. Houston. Seattle," he adds. Nothing in New York. That stays unspoken. Mostly, he wants out of here. He doesn't care where.

"Hey, Seattle, we applied there too. And Albuquerque. Um, I think we did all the Californian major cities," Scott's recalling, looking to Stiles for clarification.

"Yeah, we applied to pretty much all those places, except, ugh, why would you wanna go to Texas?" he interjects, screwing up his face in distaste. "I mean, other than that redneck kind of accent which is a bit of a turn on, they're all _actual_ rednecks," he adds. Scott and Derek snort in unison, looking down into their laps.

Stiles has no filter, whatsoever.

"I just applied to every institute in North America," Derek explains, trying to justify himself of the decision. He's got the money to do that many applications, and he's not certain he'll get in to a lot of them, so better to be safe. Even if he has to return to New York on a last resort.

"Well, that's awesome," Scott placates, grinning. "You have to tell us where you got in, we can plan around it." Stiles looks enthusiastically open to that suggestion, where Derek is confused.

"Plan around what? You already know where you're going," he counters. They haven't got acceptance letters yet, but he knows they both want to go UCLA. It's not horrifyingly far from home, it's not halfway across the country, and they have the facilities they both need. He's pretty sure the deciding factor, though, was 24/7 access to the beach.

He has no doubt they're going to get in. They work their asses off.

"We do not, we don't know where we've got in or not."

"Yeah, and we haven't totally decided. Wherever you get in, if we do too, we should totally work something out."

"It'd make rent way cheaper, man, split three ways. And you know, if we're all doing three different schedules, easier to have someone in the apartment all the time."

They're already off and talking about the tiny, frivolous details: whose car they're gonna take, whether or not they should all get jobs, and then they're arguing about whether to label shit in the fridge, and Derek sits in stunned silence.

"What the hell do you think you're talking about?" he says finally, dumbfounded. "You're not going to college with me. You're going with each other, and you're going to UCLA, you've been planning this for months."

He must sound angry, because they fall quiet, chastised.

"You don't want to?" Scott asks, brow furrowed, like that's the only obstacle he's come across.

Running a hand through his hair, frustrated, Derek sits back in his seat, half his sandwich left forgotten on the table.

"I don't know if I'll get into any LA college, and you two definitely will. You're excited about it. You can't go changing your plans just because you wanna split the rent three ways," he sighs, rubbing the palm of his hand in hard against his eyes.

"And what if we wanted to live with you, huh?" Stiles spits out. His tone is so vitriolic Derek takes his hand away and looks up, a little shocked.

"Yeah, did you fucking think about that? Jesus, is everything about you?" Stiles continues, pushing the chair back from the table with an awful _screech_. "You that desperate to get rid of us? Fucking fine.” And with that, he storms out, slamming the loft door hard.

Shell-shocked, Derek sits in silence at the table, looking down at the books and notes and graphs Stiles has left spread over his table.

"Congratulations," Scott says quietly, gathering up his books and putting them into neat piles so they don't look quite as messy. "Seriously, it's great that you're going back to school. I'm gonna - Stiles," he adds, his way of explanation, but his voice is still so flat that Derek can tell if Scott didn't have better control, he might have been shouted at again.

The Alpha leaves as quickly as Stiles had, but with less profanity and slamming of doors.

Derek's left alone again in his loft.

And this time, it's entirely his fault.

They don't talk again for a few weeks after that. The schoolbooks disappear the next afternoon, while Derek was at work, but they don't reappear again, nor do their owners. He's fairly sure he fucked up. Badly. But he doesn't make any kind of move to fix it, because it's better to let this - whatever it was - die out now while it still has its chance.

God, he hates himself for it.    

He gets updates on how school's going from Isaac, who still comes to see him, and on occasion, Lydia and Kira, who still like to take advantage of his empty space (they're teaching each other how to dance for prom. Allison joins them sometimes). But he sees no trace of the other two.

It doesn't dim his determination to keep going. He will get out of here, he will use his hard earned money from his real job, not just his insurance money, and he's going to make something of himself. Just, probably on his own.

He's getting used to the loft being quieter when they enter the fifth week of Scott and Stiles' absence. He's working longer hours now, partly because he likes the money, partly because it's nicer to be at work with a task at hand and something to occupy himself with rather than reverting to sitting home on his own.

He comes home late that night, later than usual. His watch tells him it's quarter past eleven, and now that he thinks about it, yeah, sounds right. He'd worked later doing the paperwork they've decided to trust him with, ordering the kits they've run out of, spending a few hours on the phone with people who want to chat with him. He's gotten pretty good at that, actually.

The owner of the diner he still frequents, though not in hours he knows Scott and Stiles might be there, has taken a shine to him, so he sat with him for a while, slowly eating the burger he ordered (and the free fries and salad that have come out with it).

He’s lost nearly all of his friends in this fight with the boys, but he figured that was bound to happen anyway. They were Scott’s people, not his. While the girls still use the loft, they don’t talk to him the same way anymore. Allison keeps to herself completely, and Lydia doesn’t share her opinions on him anymore.

 He thinks, in a bizarre little moment of reflection, that this almost feels like a _break-up_. And he has to laugh at himself for that. He’s just indulging himself now, letting himself ever believe that they were anywhere near close enough to break up at all. More likely, it’s just him being lonely, and hoping.

He’s gotten good at that. Hoping the loneliness would stop. He counts himself lucky that it’s a different kind of loneliness now, and that he _does_ have something there at the end of the tunnel. He could have a life now. He can get out of here. It’s enough to keep him going.

Now that he’s essentially living alone again, it doesn’t matter what time he gets home, because there’s no one there to monitor him, to expect his presence. He can get home as late as he likes, and it won’t matter at all.

Which is why he thinks nothing of it when he turns the key into his door, sliding it open and stepping inside. The second he’s in, however, he can tell something’s wrong.

He’s not alone.

There’s a definite presence in the loft, one that’s not his own, and for a moment, his wolf stands on guard, ready to attack whatever threat has invaded his space. It’s only when he listens harder, frozen in the doorway, his jacket half shrugged off, that he realises he _knows_ those voices, quiet little murmurs and shaky intakes of breath.

He dumps the jacket quickly, leaving it to pool at his feet, and darted inside, following the sounds, which only got louder as he got closer, the trail of them leading to his bedroom, _his_ bedroom. He knows what he should expect, he knows what kind of sounds these are, and he’s heard them before. It’s not something he should be intruding on, but it’s _his_ room, and he can’t help himself.

In retrospect, he should have stopped, turned around and left.

They haven’t even bothered to close the bedroom door. It’s left wide open, as if they have no regard for who sees them. And, he supposes vaguely, somewhere in the back of his mind, they’re probably not expecting anyone to see them at all. If they’ve come here this late and he’s not here at all, they must have expected him to be out for the whole night.

Because they’ve certainly never done this before, not here, not this much. Or – maybe they have, and he’s just never seen it. Either way, he’s seeing it now, and his mouth goes dry within an instant. He’s never seen so much of their _skin_ , on display like that.

They haven’t even noticed him standing in the doorway, mouth fallen open just a little without him realising it. They’re too wrapped up in one another – in every sense of the word. He can barely make out which limbs are Scott’s, and which are Stiles’, but it doesn’t seem to matter, because they’re so _close_.

The sheen of sweat on Scott’s skin makes it look even darker, and he shimmers under the dim light of the room as he moves, the way he did under the lights at Jungle, but this is so, so much better. God. Derek’s stomach has dropped right out of him, and he’s pretty sure every other organ but his heart, because he can feel it beating in his chest, hard enough that he thinks it might leave marks on his ribcage.

He won’t lie and say he hasn’t thought about how this would work. He’s pictured them many times, hundreds of times. He can come up with his own theories for all sorts. He thinks Scott would top because he’s an Alpha, because he’s so protective of Stiles, all the time. He can picture Scott wanting to take care of the other, in every way imaginable. He can picture it because he’s pictured Scott wanting to take care of him like that.

But Stiles. It works just as well for Stiles. Stiles is such a bossy, pushy, insistent little asshole so much of the time. Much as he might not want to admit it; that translates well into bed. Kate was pushy and insistent, and if he tried to ignore the _after_ , she was some of the best sex he’d ever had (the only, really). The other part, though, which Derek thinks is more important, is that Stiles already feels insecure sometimes about being human. Not often, because he’s made the conscious decision _not_ to take the bite, but there are glimmers, where he’s left behind in the loft when they hunt, because he’d be a liability. Controlling his Alpha would be a hell of a thrill.

None of that actually enters his mind, then, though. He’ll think about all that later. No, there’s almost nothing in his mind right now, nothing but shock and lust. He can’t tell for a moment, which of those scenarios it truly is, until Stiles throws his head back and moans, and _fuck_ , he damn near shudders.

He can’t believe they still haven’t noticed him, but he supposes, if Scott was inside _him_ , he wouldn’t be very aware of anything else, either. His fingers have curled into his palms without him realising, and he’s just _staring_ , taking in as much as he can before it’s over, before he’s no longer afforded this.

It’s only when Scott pulls back and drives in hard that Stiles’ eyes snap open again, rolling back in his head for a moment before he looks forward, and –

Yeah, he’s been noticed.

He still doesn’t move. Stiles’ mouth falls open, but instead of a shout, or a protest, out falls another moan, and this one _does_ make Derek shiver, because Stiles is looking him right in the eye.

“Scott,” he breathes, leaning up to murmur into the other boy’s ear, something Derek can’t make out over the sound of his heart thumping in his chest. He’s still not moving.

Scott turns, winds his whole body around, and Stiles winces. The Alpha’s face is a clear show of surprise, but he doesn’t look angry, or embarrassed. Maybe he does, and Derek’s just in enough denial to pretend he’s not pissed.

“I- fuck,” he manages to splutter out, the two of them staring back at him like fucking rabbits in headlights, and he finally, finally, forces his limbs to move, one foot turning to steer him out the door, fast.

Stiles is racing after him as quick as he can, disentangling himself from Scott awkwardly, his limbs soft and staticky, making it hard to run.

“Derek!” he’s shouting, and yeah, he sounds frustrated this time around. Almost as frustrated as he had weeks before at the kitchen table, before he’d left him completely. “Jesus, Derek, come _back_ , you fucking – “

Now that he’s moving, though, he doesn’t want to stop, and he certainly doesn’t want to go back to face whatever they want to tell him. He thinks he should at least let them get off before they chew him out. Maybe then they’d be in a better mood. (Even though it’s his loft, his bed, _he_ should be the angry one).

He doesn’t intend to stop at all, halfway through the loft to the front door, when he feels a hand at his arm, and he wheels round, pulled hard. Stiles is only human, he can easily shake him off if he wants, but even as he’s embarrassed and half-hard, and fucking _confused_ , he won’t hurt him. He’s tried really fucking hard lately not to throw anyone into any walls.

“Get _off_ ,” he begins to snarl, but it’s cut off by warm lips on his, and –

What?

Either the shock of coming home and finding them fucking in his bed was enough to slow his reflexes, or Stiles was getting quicker than he thought, because he barely has time to even think about what’s happening, let alone pull away from it.

He’s frozen for a long moment, before his body betrays him, and he melts into the kiss, one hand coming up instinctively to rest on Stiles’ hip, kissing back eagerly.

Until his mind kicks back into gear, and he tears himself back, horrified with himself. “What the _fuck_ do you think you’re doing?” he rasps, eyes wide as he wipes over his mouth, as if to try to dispose of the evidence. (The taste of Stiles’ lips stay on his anyway).

The human falters for a second, hurt flickering across his face, before he rises up, chest puffed out. It looks so fucking bizarre, because he’s standing naked before Derek, and he just seems to have fucking forgotten all about that. Or maybe he just doesn’t care.

“I was kissing you, moron,” he spits. Even Derek recognises this anger as a defence mechanism. “And you – you kissed me _back_ , OK, you were enjoying it, so don’t fucking run away from me like you always fucking do.”

“You have a _boyfriend_ ,” Derek hisses back, even though, yeah, everything Stiles just said is true, and he can’t deny it even a little bit anymore. “He’s – you were literally _just_ – what the fuck is the matter with you?”

He knows Scott can probably hear everything they’re saying, but the boy isn’t coming out of the bedroom, leaving Stiles and Derek to shout at each other, and – fuck. Maybe he’s hurt. Maybe Stiles’ ridiculous fucking kiss caught Scott by surprise, of course it would, he’s just cheated in the presence of his boyfriend, and – he probably hates Derek now.

“There’s _nothing_ wrong with me!” Stiles hits back, and this time, his voice cracks just a little as it rises. Scott’s told him that over and over, and he still doesn’t quite believe it. “You’re a _coward_ , I know you want us too. I see the way you fucking look at us, I saw it _just_ then.”

Derek’s too worried and confused and pissed off to even register the ‘us’.

“Don’t _ever_ do that again,” he threatens, voice low and ending in a growl. His eyes flicker blue, his control shaking. His _wolf’s_ shaking, so desperate to prove to his Alpha that he’d never, ever touch something that was his, that Stiles kissed him, and he didn’t mean to kiss back, that he won’t ever disrespect him like that again.

It’s only Derek’s human pride that stops him from going back to Scott and pleading.

But he doesn’t need to go _back_ to Scott, because he’s in the doorway now, sheets draped and tied around his waist, his own eyes glowing red in the dim light.

“Stand down,” he orders, voice so laden with power that Derek immediately pulls it back, his claws retracting, eyes back to their human green. His shoulders fall, making himself smaller, and he takes a step back from Stiles, apologetic.

Stiles looks like someone punched him in the gut, and Derek can see angry tears at the corners of his eyes, his guilt only mounting. The kid takes one look at Derek and strides immediately to Scott, for once not the more forceful out of the two, standing behind his shoulder and letting Scott reach behind him to lay a hand on his hip, exactly where Derek’s hand had been a minute ago.

“Scott, I – “he starts, but doesn’t know how to finish. He what? He can’t explain this without placing all the blame on Stiles, and that would only break them up. He doesn’t _want_ them to break up, they’re so good for each other. They’re – the real thing, he can’t get in between that.

“It’s OK,” Scott finishes for him. His voice is still vaguely hooked into Alpha tone, and Derek can’t help but let it calm him down. “He kissed you, I know. It’s fine. Derek, calm the fuck down. Just take a breath, I’m not mad.”

He does breathe in, but he doesn’t let it out. It doesn’t make sense to him. Why wouldn’t Scott be pissed? He’d be pissed if someone hurt him like that. If he hadn’t given his permission to kiss someone else. And Scott certainly couldn’t have given permission. No way.

“Just leave it, Scott,” Stiles sighs, and while he still sounds a little angry, he’s mostly resigned. It sounds so much worse to Derek’s ears. “He won’t do it, just give up.”

Scott looks torn now, between taking Stiles back to bed and comforting him, Derek assumes, if he really _isn’t_ angry, and continuing this with him. It’s not a fair choice for him to have to make, so he makes it for them, and turns on his heel, out the door and into the night again.

 

**(+1)**

“He doesn’t _want_ us, OK?” Stiles spits, and shoves Scott away hard. It’s only because Scott had seen him crying about two minutes ago that he doesn’t shove back and remind Stiles not to be an asshole.

“You surprised him, that’s all,” he tries to reason. “I mean, come on, he walked in on that, and then you _kissed_ him. What else was he supposed to think?”

Stiles glares at him, sullen and petty and childlike the way only he can ever really master, but he doesn’t answer straight away, so Scott knows he’s hit a chink in the armour.

“I thought if I just fucking kissed him already, he’d _get_ it,” he huffs finally. It comes out as a plaintive, longing whine, and he wakes up to himself a little, tossing down the lacrosse stick hard and moving to sit with Scott on the front porch, flopping down with his head in the other boy’s lap.

“He’s dense, dude, we both knew that. Don’t know how anyone can _not_ get your come hither eyes,” Scott snorts, tugging at Stiles’ hair playfully.

It’s been a month since they made the pretty stupid decision to fuck in Derek’s bed, even if it did smell like Derek, and get Scott harder than anything, and make Stiles even more horny than usual. A month since Derek answered any of their calls, any of the texts, and to be honest, Stiles’ pride is so wounded that they haven’t gone over again to try to work it out.

“Right?” Stiles answers, eyes widening as he speaks. “I mean, come on, I basically invited him to fuck, like, twenty times, why is he so _stupid_?” he growls. Or, well, his attempt at growling, which when Scott replies with his own _actual_ growl, sounds pathetic.

“I don’t know,” Scott sighs, playing with Stiles’ hair. “Guess we underestimated how freaked out people would be about the whole threesome thing.”

They’d been, well, halfway realistic about it. That kind of thing only happened in porn, and what _they_ wanted, all of it, not just the sex; that never happened. They were aiming pretty high, and they both knew it.

“Just not fucking fair,” Stiles grumbles, and beneath the put upon little act, Scott can hear how gutted he _really_ is.

And decides to do something about it.

* * *

Derek’s not expecting it, when it comes. He’s thrown himself into work, into waiting for his acceptance letter, to anywhere, at this point, and into pointedly avoiding anything to do with Scott&Stiles. That’s over and done with now. It doesn’t matter if he lies in bed and thinks about the kiss, about the way their bodies had moved together, how he might have fit into that. It’s over now.

So he thinks they should have got the message by now. Apparently not.

When he hears the knock at the door, recognises Scott’s heartbeat behind it, he hesitates. Half of him doesn’t want to open it, to pretend that he’s just not even here. But Scott would likely walk in anyway, he’s comfortable enough here to do that. And Scott’s his Alpha, he can never not let him in. His wolf wouldn’t let him, and he doesn’t think his heart would, either.

“What are you doing here?” he says in way of greeting as he yanks the door open, voice short and gruff. Like before. Like they never became friends.

Scott doesn’t seem fazed, not really. He used to get so fucking irritated by Derek’s taunting, but he’s gotten pretty Zen about it lately.

“Wanted to talk. You won’t answer my calls,” he answers, waltzing inside like he still owns the place. (He does.)

“No Stiles?” Derek asks, shutting the door behind him with a suppressed growl, hitting his forehead against the metal for a second. This isn’t going to go well, he knows.

“Nope. No Stiles. Thought it was time for just a you and me talk.” He sits down on the sofa, and clearly expects Derek to join him.

He pretends like he had a choice in whether he did so.

“So, what? You kicking me out of the pack? I’m leaving in a month or two, anyway, it’ll save you the time,” he bites out, on the defence. Scott and Stiles are leaving in a month or two as well, but they’ll be in opposite directions, if Derek can help it.

Scott had prepared himself for a whole lot of yelling and power flaring. He’s ready for a fight, but he’s not exactly ready for _that_. His face falters, and well-rehearsed bravado stutters, unsure how to progress.

“I – _no_ ,” he sputters finally. “Jesus fuck, Derek. Why do you always assume the worst out of me?” He sounds a little angry now, too, and Derek wants to take it back. But he barrels on forward, anyway.

“Just don’t see what else you could be here for. I’ll apologise again for what happened, but I can’t change it. Don’t know what happened between you two,” he explains, voice still short.

“Yeah, and if you’d just fucking stayed when he asked you to, we could have explained,” Scott shoots back, his voice hot. He takes a breath, like it’s a conscious effort not to fly off the handle, and Derek silently applauds his control.

“Look, I don’t want an apology. Stiles might, you kind of hurt him. But you didn’t do anything _wrong,”_ Scott starts again. Derek wonders if he knows how much an effect those words have coming from him, or if this is just him being sincere.

“You’re dating. I should’ve just – left you alone when I realised what you were doing,” he brushes off, uncomfortable. What _were_ you doing, he wants to ask, what the hell were you doing in my bed? Were you two trying to drive me insane?

“Don’t be stupid. We were there for a reason, OK? Just – shut up for a while, here, and let me explain. You think you can do that? Keep your mouth shut for five minutes?” Scott asks, raising a brow. It’s a challenge, and they both know it. Derek smothers a grin, and nods, crossing his arms.

“OK. Good. I just – shit, how do I start this? I know you thought you’d done something to break us up, or that Stiles was cheating on me, but it’s not like that. Yeah, we love each other. I mean, I love him more than _anything_. Don’t you dare tell him that, his head’s big enough as it is,” Scott warns, but his face has taken on the slightly warm glow he got when he was with Allison, too. Derek recognises it.

He likes it. He likes seeing Scott happy, and it shouldn’t make sense that he’s not jealous, when he wants Scott for himself. But when it’s Stiles – it just seems natural. Trying to make Scott not love Stiles would be something _awful_.

He stays quiet, adhering to the challenge, and waits for Scott to continue, intrigued. Even if he doesn’t know what this is, he could listen to the boy talk about Stiles without _too_ much of a pang.

“Right, so. I love Stiles. He loves me. Should have just ended there, right?” He laughs, empty and self-deprecating, the kind of laugh that should have come out of Derek, not Scott. “Except it didn’t. I don’t know why the hell not, normal people end it there. They don’t get – greedy, you know. Stiles should be enough for me, but he’s not. I should be enough for Stiles, but I’m _not_.”

This all sounds very well-rehearsed, so much so that his voice skips over parts of words, hurrying to get to other parts.

“We thought if we just kind of implied it, you’d _get_ it. That was a stupid idea, you don’t get anything unless it’s all laid out in front of you.” He should be offended there, but his heart’s beginning to race, and he’s sure Scott can hear it.

“So I’m going to have to be blunt, aren’t I? I’m better at blunt than Stiles, he just kind of offends people. S’why he’s not here. Look, we want you, Derek, OK? We know it’s weird, and – it’s not normal, and it’s maybe not something you’re interested in, but Stiles is sick to death of just waiting for you to realise it,” he finishes, and yeah, he looks a little out of breath now, worried.

This is when he’s supposed to talk, he knows, but he’s blown away, speechless.

“Derek?” Scott asks hesitantly, when he still hasn’t spoken. “Jeez. Did I break you? You don’t – have to say yes or anything.”

He takes a breath, a long breath, closing his eyes and running a hand through his hair, hunched over.

“Are you serious?” he breathes finally, looking up. “You can’t be serious. You don’t want – trust me, you don’t want to get tangled up with this, with me.”

Scott must have been expecting this, because he looks slightly more confident again.

“Of course I’m serious. We’re already tangled up with you, come on. And it’s not a bad thing. I know you think you’re damaged goods, but you’re not. I told you we want you. So _believe_ it,” Scott counters firmly, but it’s all coming from Scott, human Scott, not an inch of it an Alpha’s command.

“But – you’re both fucking underage, and – you should want to have a _normal_ life, as normal as you can,” he protests, even though what he wants, what he really, _really_ wants, is within reach now.

“We’re both eighteen in two months, and we don’t give a fuck about normal.”

He must have been expecting those protests, too, because the counterarguments come quick as anything, swift and sharp.

“I don’t think this is a good idea,” he attempts, trying to keep his voice hard, even if it’s getting weaker and weaker, his resolve crumbling away.

“Well, I think it’s a great idea. I don’t see why we have to stick to ‘normal’, not when nothing about our lives is normal. Be honest. Would it make you happy? Being a part of our thing?” Scott asks, and there’s a definite command in that.

“Yes, but that’s not the – “

He’s not really getting a chance to finish his sentences these days. Scott’s surged forward, kissing him hard, crawling into his lap, and for fuck’s sake, he’s not giving this one up. He’s just not.

He kisses back, needy and eager, curling his arms around Scott’s waist, pulling him in as close as he possibly can, the tips of his fingers crackling with electricity as he splays his hands out against Scott’s back. He can feel Scott’s heart beating almost as fast as his through their chests pressed together, and wonders if Scott can feel his too.

He only realises what he’s doing when he licks into Scott’s mouth, and wonders how much like Stiles he might taste. This is Scott, _Stiles’_ Scott. He can’t do this.

He pulls back, hating himself for it, because Scott whines like he’s never heard before from the guy, and god. He wants more already, he wants Scott’s mouth back on his, he wants to kiss and kiss and kiss until he passes out, he wants to be able to breathe in and taste nothing but _Scott_.

“Please don’t freak out again,” Scott pleads, and his mouth looks a little red, like when he’s been making out with Stiles. That’s enough to get him just a little hard. “Can we _please_ just skip this and go back to you kissing me?”

Derek wants nothing more than to just give in and give Scott everything he wants, but he shakes his head, his breath coming out shorter than usual.

“Not until I talk to Stiles,” he breathes, closing his eyes. Honesty is the only thing he’s going to accept here. “I just – I have to check with him. I trust you, but – I have to talk with him. You understand?”

Scott’s face falls, but he nods, huffing out a breath. “I get it,” he says. “I do. Just – sucks. I’m not totally patient.” He follows that up with a sheepish grin, and Derek’s control wavers a hell of a lot, trying not to kiss it off again.

“Just give me a day. Without any _pestering_. I gotta – think about this,” he warns, before he throws caution to the wind for just a second, leaning forward to cup both hands around Scott’s face, kissing him once, quick and soft, before he stands, before he can do more.

“Go study or something. Leave me alone,” he orders, voice low, and Scott drags himself up, the struggle within him so obvious as he tries not to go in for another kiss, grumbling under his breath the way Stiles does sometimes, leaving Derek with only a few parting words.

“This is a for real thing, Derek. Please actually think about it.”

It’s hard to think, _actually_ think, when he can still taste Scott in his mouth, so he locks the bathroom door, rubs one out, which doesn’t take nearly as long as usual, and collapses on his sofa, pants off and legs soft and jelly-like, wide apart.

What the fuck is he supposed to do now?

Scott’s basically offered him everything he wants on a damn plate, for him to just – take. And give nothing, and there don’t seem to be any catches, nothing to trip him up and make this seem like it could hurt him.

But he’s worked really hard, so hard, to stop from wanting this. To look forward, past this little clusterfuck in his life, the latest of many, to try to be a healthy fucking human being for once. God, this isn’t fair.

He should be going to talk to Stiles right now, to finally be answering one of his calls, meeting up and trying to work out what’s really going on here. But there’s this stupid little niggling fear in the back of his mind, this awful little piece of him left over from Kate, scared that if he goes to talk to Stiles, the boy will just – _look_ at him, and shake his head, and ‘How could you ever think we’d want you, Derek?’, and kick him out.

Irrational, he knows, but he just – can’t handle rejection, not from them. Not from Stiles. He’s far too invested in that kid to be pushed away.

He breathes out after a while, licks around his mouth to get the stale taste out, and picks up another trace of Scott. It kicks him into gear, remembering the Alpha’s final words, and he at least owes it to him to _try_.

Even if he’s scared shitless.

In the end, maybe stupidly, he doesn’t text Stiles, doesn’t call him, because it makes it all a bit too real for him. Instead, he just drives past his house once or twice (three, four, five times), sniffs the air to make sure he’s home, and growls under his breath as he stalks up to the front door, curling his nails into his palms.

He can’t just turn and run back to the Camaro. That’s cowardly, even for him.

“Oh. Hello, Derek.”

John doesn’t sound at all pleased to him, and Derek feels his stomach sink. He hasn’t actually expected John. He hasn’t braced himself it. Stupid.

“Hello, sir,” he replies quietly. “Is Stiles home?”

John looks him over, standing in the doorway, and Derek wonders if he’s purposefully drawing out this silence, because he knew _his_ Dad used to do that to them, when they asked for something, just to tease.

“He’s home. Are you here to fix whatever it is that got broken?” he asks finally, still making no move to let Derek inside. Swallowing hard, Derek nods, that familiar feeling of seeming such a child in front of this man, creeping up his spine.

“Yes, sir, I am.” He’s not quite sure how to elaborate: your son kissed me after I found him fucking his boyfriend in my bed, and now I’m here to see if he really does want to fuck me too. Doesn’t quite have a ring to it.

“Well, about time,” John sighs, stepping aside, finally. “He’s been _moping_. Hasn’t spent this much time in his own room since he discovered his right hand,” he adds, and Derek chokes, completely visibly, mortified as John laughs hard behind him.

He’s up the stairs before the man can fuck with him any further, relieved to be at Stiles’ door and safe.

But, it’s not safe, because now he’s at _Stiles’ door_ , and he has to go in there and actually do this thing.

“I can hear you breathing, creeper, get the fuck in here,” comes a sharp shout from inside the room, and Derek obeys almost immediately, closing the door behind him with a quiet click.

“Hi,” he says after a moment, and kicks himself internally for it. Fuck, he really has no clue what to say now.

Stiles is sprawled out in his computer chair, leaning against the side of his desk, watching what looks like old re-runs of The Angry Beavers. He does kind of look like shit. Derek can smell how _stale_ he is, thinks it must have been at least two days or so since he’s showered, and there are Dorito crumbs in his lap and down his shirt.

He screws up his nose on instinct, and for lack of anything else to say, puts his foot in his mouth.

“You stink. You need a shower.”

The kid barks out a sharp laugh at that, straightening up, and some of the crumbs fall out onto the floor. Derek itches to clean them up. Stiles is such a pig sometimes.

“Well, thanks for the sage advice. That why you’re here? To give me hygiene tips?” he shoots back, and while he’s heard Stiles be this cruel with Isaac before (and hated it), he can’t remember the last time it’s been directed at him.

“No,” he answers, immediately on the defence. “I – Scott came to talk to me.”

That changes things. Stiles’ face softens, surprised, and he crosses his legs on the spindly chair.

“Scotty went to talk to you? About what?” he asks warily. “He didn’t tell me about this.”

“No, I think he just – I don’t know. He…” and this is where it gets harder to keep going, because he doesn’t want this to fuck them up, he can’t be driving a wedge in, he can’t, he can’t, but he remembers Scott kissing him, and Stiles kissing him, and that has to mean something.

“He kissed me. And he told me you both wanted to – I didn’t really get what he was saying. I think he meant he wanted me to be part of your thing,” he tries to explain.

Stiles’ face pales, and fuck, not good. Derek wants to take the words back, but he can’t, and hell, you know, maybe he wouldn’t anyway. Maybe it’s better to just get this _out_.

“And what did you say?” Stiles asks, finally, after a long, awful drawn out silence. “What, did you yell at him too? You hit him?”

His voice is hard and angry, and each word feels like a punch, which he thinks is what Stiles going for.

“I’d never _hit_ him, Stiles, shut up,” he snaps. It hurts just knowing that Stiles thinks he would, and pain usually makes him a nasty, aggressive thing. Just like Stiles. “I didn’t know what to say. I told him I’d come to talk to you.”

Stiles huffs, crossing his arms, but Derek can hear the spike in his heartbeat, can even hear the way the kid tries to regulate it, too. He’s not quite practised enough at bluffing yet for Derek to miss it.

“Talk about what? What is there to talk about? Thought I made it pretty fucking clear what I wanted, and you _walked_ _out_. Like you always fucking do. You just left.”

That’s true, and Derek won’t try to deny it. He’s pretty good at walking out. Requires less effort than staying and trying.

“I know. But I don’t know what you expected just kissing me like that,” he argues, frustration welling up. “How was I supposed to know you were _serious_ about this? Not everyone jumps to threesome _relationship_ or whatever this is you want.”

Stiles looks about ready to hit him, but someone must have been working with him on his own self-control, because instead, he visibly bites the inside of his cheek, wincing.

“Fine,” he snaps. “You get it now. You still gonna just run the fuck away?”

Good question. One Derek hasn’t really answered himself yet. He swallows, doesn’t meet Stiles’ eye, and thinks. For about half a minute.

“No. Not unless you want me to.”

Turns out he didn’t even need to fucking think about it.

Stiles eyes him, like he might change his mind at any minute, and stays quiet for a long moment. Derek thinks he might be giving him the long stretch of silence to allow him time to take it back.

He won’t do it.

“You … wanna try this weirdo thing?” he asks finally, voice quiet and hesitant. He sounds more like a little kid than Derek’s ever heard him before.

“Yeah, I wanna try.” He does. He can’t give them any guarantees that any of this will actually _work_ , that he’ll be able to actually handle any of this. That he can give them what they want, because he still doesn’t really _understand_. But he wants to try.

Stiles slumps, the anger and the tension and the hate falling right on out of him, and his face splits into a relieved grin, lighting him up. He throws himself hard at Derek, the way Scott had, and the only difference is, this time, Derek’s ready for it. He laughs, catches the kid, lets him throw his arms around Derek’s neck, holding too tight.

“God, you smell. Have a fucking shower,” he grumbles, and that’s the other difference, yeah. Stiles surprises him by tugging hard at his hair, making him yelp.

“Have one _with_ me,” he counters, and Derek can hear the tease in his voice. He pulls back, shaking his head.

“No. No way. I’m not touching either one of you until I sort out a few things,” he says firmly, even though it’s really fucking tempting to shove Stiles into a shower and strip off right there. The thought of his father downstairs stems that thought pretty damn quick.

“Wait, what? Do you have any fucking idea how long I’ve waited for you to kick your ass into gear? You better not be talking about, like, _whole months_ again,” Stiles warns, his eyes narrowing. Derek wonders vaguely exactly how long that had been, but he can ask about that later. Because there’s going to _be_ a later.

“It’s not _whole months_ ,” he answers with a roll of his eyes, though he couldn’t deny the little rush of elation at Stiles’ impatience. “I just need to handle something. Give me a day, two at most. Jesus, you teenagers. Can’t you wait for anything?”

Stiles answers him with a hard kick in his shin, enough to make him wince and scowl. The kid must have been practising how to hit hard enough to make a werewolf hurt.

“We’ve _been_ waiting. Keep us waiting for much longer, and we might reconsider the whole letting you come to college with us thing,” he retorts, and sounds so serious for a moment that Derek’s face falls immediately. Stiles might not be aware of it, but he knows exactly where the most vulnerable spots are in Derek, and when to hit them.

“Oh,” Stiles says quickly. “Look, no, I was _joking_. Derek.” He steps forward, and Derek notes that he doesn’t have to stand on his toes to meet his eyes anymore, Stiles is almost exactly as tall as him, and rather than kissing him, like Derek expects, wraps his arms around Derek’s neck and clings on tight.

“You’re a dude who really can’t take a joke,” he sighs, but doesn’t let go, his breath warm against Derek’s ear. “You’re gonna have to get used to them, when you’re ours.”

And Derek can feel the _thrill_ running down his spine at those words, is pretty sure Stiles can feel it too, because he thinks he shuddered just a little, his stomach curling itself into little knots. This could actually be a thing. This could work, maybe, if he tries really hard not to be himself and fuck it all up. He wants this to work more than he’s wanted anything after the fire.

“Take a shower,” he murmurs finally in response, pulling back and running a hand over the back of his neck nervously. “I’ll be back. Soon. Just gotta do this thing.”

Stiles grumbles, but Derek can see there’ll be no more argument. He can also see Stiles peeling his shirt off, a hint of a smirk curling at his lips, and Derek turns on his heel as quickly as possible, out Stiles’ door and out of the house before his resolve can falter and he gets greedy.

Once he’s cleared his head, once he can think properly again, the result of a very long run around the outskirts of the town, reminiscent of the guard jogs he used to do, checking up on each house of each person who mattered to him, he gets to work.

Melissa will be first, because though he’s pretty sure she could kill him before he could blink if she wanted to, he’s less scared of her reaction. He’d memorised her shifts back when the boys actually spent all their time with him still, and he knows that this afternoon, she’ll be home, and Scott will be at school.

The hunter in him sees an opportunity when it presents itself.

He can practically hear Laura and Cora laughing at him as he puts on his nicest clothes, tries to make himself look more presentable, more like a responsible adult. His Mom would have laughed, too, but his Dad would have helped him shave, even if he was perfectly old enough to do it himself. His Dad would have understood.

The ache’s still there in his chest when he knocks on the McCall’s front door, but it’s not as bad as usual. Maybe the nerves have tempered it. He forces himself to _stay_ when Melissa opens the door, surprise clear on her face.

“Derek, hi,” she says, and at least she sounds _pleasantly_ surprised. Clearing his throat, he tries to offer a smile. He doesn’t know that it totally works.

“Hi, Mrs. McCall. Can I come in, please? I need to talk to you about something.”

If she looks a little concerned, Derek ignores it, because he can’t afford to be scared off. Not now.

Sitting down across from her at the table, he looks down at his hands. He had a spiel prepared, but it’s scarpered from his mind now. Typical.

“I’d like to ask your permission about something. You know … Scott and Stiles are together, right?” he starts, the awkwardness in his voice so thick he imagines tying a rope out of it and hanging himself with it so he doesn’t have to be here.

Melissa smiles, an indulgent kind of smile, and nods. “Yes, Derek, I know all about it. I’m the one who caught them together in Scott’s room years ago,” she explains. She’s amused with him, he can tell.

“Right. OK. I understand that this isn’t the most normal of – and I’ll understand if you don’t want me having anything to do with them – but…”

This isn’t fucking going well. He can see the confusion on her face across from him, and he’s still faltering.

“I think that I could do a lot to make them happy,” he mumbles finally. He feels defeated already. “They’ve told me that they’re interested in me, and I – I’ve been interested for a long time, too.” Jesus, that sounds even worse, like he’s been preying on them for years.

“Stop,” Melissa says, holding up a hand. “Before you give yourself a stroke. I think I understand.”

“You do?”

“I do. Sweetheart, I’m their mother, I see everything.” Derek doesn’t call her out on the _their_. She probably is their mother. He thinks Stiles might like to know she thinks that way.

“Look, I’ve seen the way you are with them. I thought it was just an unrequited crush, and it would go away, so I never said anything. But… Oh, trust my son to make things complicated,” she explains, exasperation creeping in at her edges.

“I’m not going to say this is what I imagined when he was little,” she continues when he stays quiet, forcing himself to keep his eyes up. “And I can’t say I’m completely fine with it, either, but – he’ll be eighteen soon, and I don’t have a say in who he chooses to be with.”

She sighs, but it doesn’t sound like an angry sigh. Not to Derek, anyway. It could be perfectly angry and he wouldn’t know at all, he’s so hopeful that she’ll be at least _OK_ with it.

“You won’t tell him not to?” he asks after a long moment. The fact that she hasn’t given a _blessing_ or anything else as ridiculous as that (Derek likes ridiculous things, he wants ridiculous things, the fact that he’s even here right now is a testament to that) stings a little, but really, he doesn’t know what he expected.

“You think he’d listen? He’s a teenager in love, Derek, I don’t have the slightest say in what he does,” she answers, raising a brow. She can’t possibly know how much of a teenager in love he used to be, but it still feels like she’s referencing Paige _(Kate)_. He swallows it down.

“Just know that I don’t need to know about wolfsbane or any of the other things my son does to hurt you if you hurt them. _Either_ of them,” she adds. He doesn’t doubt it for a second.

“I won’t,” he promises immediately. He’s hurt enough people in his life, he’s been trying his hardest not to hurt _anyone_ anymore. Hasn’t been going so swimmingly.

“Well, then, all I can say is good luck,” Melissa finishes, and it’s very clearly a dismissal, an end to the conversation. That’s fine, he’s about ready to curl his tail between his legs and run.

“Thank you,” he mumbles, and turns tail before she can say any more, determined to be out of there. So it hadn’t gone as well as he would have liked. She hadn’t said _no_ , exactly. And if this worked, if this turned out to be more than some – far-fetched teenage fantasy that he’s allowed himself to get caught up in, then maybe she’ll warm to it. To him.

John. John might be different.

He takes his time getting to John’s. Dawdles. Shamelessly. It’s cowardly and childish and he knows that perfectly well, but if Melissa wasn’t going to give him a blessing, then the older Stilinski most definitely wouldn’t. He might get himself ordered out and away, if he asked John.

But he had to do it. He would have felt like he was lying, like he was doing something wrong, if he didn’t ask John. And this was already going to be hard enough; he didn’t want to add being _illicit_ to it.

After a considerably long and slow walk, he’s surprised to find John waiting for him at the front door, sitting on the porch. Derek half expects him to be nursing a rifle, but that’s fucking absurd. He wouldn’t ever _really_. Just in his half-baked nightmares.

“Hello, Derek,” he greets, his voice even as Derek approaches the house carefully. It looks like he’s been waiting for a while.

“Sir,” he counters, coming to a stop just at the bottom of the steps. A safe distance, but respectable. This would be easier if his Dad had been there to give him a pep talk.

“I understand you’ve got something to ask me,” John continues on, as if Derek hadn’t even spoken. Derek’s eyes widen just a fraction, and John cracks a very small smile. It’s disconcerting.

“Melissa called me,” he explains, and of course, right, that makes fucking sense. Derek’s out of sorts. He hates it.

“Yes, sir,” he answers, clearing his throat. “You – want me to give you the speech I had rehearsed, or did she explain?” he adds, the corner of his own mouth curling up. Maybe he shouldn’t be joking. Too late now.

“I don’t think I need to hear it. Got a couple of questions, though.” John’s voice is brusque now, and he crosses his arms. Derek knows enough about human body language (classes with the Alpha stuck in his head, always) to know that John holds the power here, and he knows it. He nods, doesn’t unstick his mouth, waits.

“Is it about sex?”

It’s such a blunt, clear question that Derek almost chokes. He shakes his head vehemently, a little more concerned about proving that he’s not a predator to worry about discussing his sex life with Stiles’ father.

“No,” he answers firmly. “Not completely. It’s not just some fantasy they cooked up and decided to include me in.” Even if that’s – maybe what it is. “It’s not a one night thing.”

John doesn’t answer, seems to be contemplating that, leaning back in his chair.

“I don’t like it. I’ll make that much clear. Don’t like it at all. He’s already got enough weird, dangerous shit in his life that could hurt him, he doesn’t need to be doing things differently just because he _can_ ,” John says finally, face pinched into a scowl that doesn’t suit his features. “ _But_. I like you. Trust you. Don’t exactly want you in some – threeway with my son – “he winces at that, like it hurts to think about “-but there’s no changing his mind, and I’m sick of him being miserable all the time. He’s… been through enough. Deserves a little happiness.”

Derek agrees. Whole heartedly. That’s half his whole concern about this thing, laid out in front of him. This is going to be too _strange_ , and Stiles should be doing something normal with the only normal part in his life left. Scott, too. But they genuinely seem to want him, he genuinely seems to make them happy. That’s more important than keeping to normality. So long as they’re happy.

Never mind that just the thought makes him lighter and brighter and more _hopeful_ than he’s been in a long time.

“I understand. Really. I get all that. But I’m going to try it. Just wanted to make sure that you knew first. So I wasn’t sneaking around, or lying.”

They seem to be the magic words, because John huffs, but his face softens, enough for Derek to catch the movement.

“Yeah, well. OK. You can thank Melissa, she talked me down. I was ready to drive you out of town,” he admits, far gruffer than he usually is with Derek. He’s reminded of his own father trying to remain angry when he was about to laugh.

“You don’t have anything to worry about,” Derek assures, although he knows that John won’t believe him. “M’not gonna do anything to hurt them. Just want to – keep them safe. And happy.”

It sounds like he’s out of some cheesy after school special, but they’re the most honest words he has, so he may as well use them. Even if he sounds like the people he used to _mock_ for being melodramatic.

“I believe you,” John concedes, before reaching inside the front door and grabbing his jacket, shrugging it over his shoulders. “I gotta get back to the station. But I fully expect updates from _you_ , Derek. Not them. You and I will be talking, and if I don’t like the sound of what’s going on …”

He trails off, but Derek gets the message anyway.

“Yes, sir,” he answers immediately. “Thank you.”

He only receives a grumble in reply, but it’s more than enough. Maybe not _blessings_ , maybe not blanket permission. But he’s trusted, and they want him around. That’s enough.

**(+2)**

They look bizarre in their robes, but Derek can’t tear his eyes away from them. He’s been thinking for a few months now about them graduating, thinking about it non-stop, because when they graduate, it means they get to start over somewhere new.

Fuck, he can’t wait.

“Should make _you_ wear one, too,” Stiles shoots over at him, when he catches Derek’s smug grin. They _do_ look – surreal. Scott and Stiles in billowing graduation robes, trying to attach their hats at the ‘correct’ angle (Derek thought it was fine twenty minutes ago), look like _men_.

His men.

“I graduated years ago, thank you, I’ve already done this shit,” he counters, shaking his head. No way they’re ever getting him into one of those things again. Even if he knows that the both of them are wearing _suits_ underneath, the nicest suits they’ve ever owned. Courtesy of Derek. His graduation present. A selfish one, mostly, because all he’ll do is stare at them all night and then tear them off.

“No _way_ ,” Scott bursts out. “Why have we not seen those photos?” He looks hungry and eager for a chance to see Derek embarrassed: they’d thought his baby photos, the very few he salvaged from packs they used to be friendly with, were both hilarious and adorable. He regretted ever showing them.

“Burned,” he answers quickly. “You’ll never see them. Never. Don’t even try.” Truthfully, he has them tucked away in a shoebox he brought back from New York, and he only kept them because they had Laura in them. She’d been so fiercely proud that she looked just like Mom for a second.

Both their faces fall, but he subtly manages to snap a photo of them on his phone a moment later, Stiles’ face lit up with laughter as he adjusts Scott’s cap, and the sound of the shutter draws a grin out Scott, moving to snatch the phone and examine the photo.

“You’re so _sweet_ ,” he teases, showing Stiles the shot. “Taking photos of us to put as your _screen_ saver.” He’s downright cooing now, so Derek tugs hard at the hair at the back of his neck he can reach, taking advantage of the yelp to grab his phone back.

“You’re self-centred. My world does not revolve around you two,” he scoffs.

He sets the photo as his wallpaper anyway.

Melissa and John had insisted that they both dress and get ready in their own homes, instead of the loft, where they’ve been sleeping almost every night for the last month. Derek’s much more comfortable now standing in the lounge of the McCall household, casual and relaxed. John and Melissa are in the kitchen – they’ve seemingly spent more time together since he and the boys started seeing each other, and from the low laughs he hears, he knows something’s going on.

Scott must know, too, but he just grins every time they’re in the same room, silent.

‘Stop fiddling,” he snaps at them after a few more minutes of their nervous primping. They were worse than _girls_ when they really worried, the both of them. “You look beautiful.”

The words are out before he can take them back, and he feels his cheek heat up when they coo once more, faces flushed with delight. He doesn’t make declarations like that often, not outside the bedroom, and they’re not used to it, Stiles planting a kiss at the corner of his mouth, like a reward.

“You hear that, Scotty? He thinks we’re _beautiful,_ ” he says happily, drawing the word out in his mouth, until Derek steals it back into his own, catching his teeth with his fangs just slightly. Stiles likes feeling the fangs.

“Knock it off,” John orders as Derek can feel Scott’s hand snaking up his shirt. He jumps back from them, suitably chastised, though they don’t look too fazed.

“We’re eighteen, remember?” Stiles says, rolling his eyes. He still looks pink and pleased from Derek’s accidental compliment. “You can’t dictate my sex life anymore.”

Scott snorts, but nudges Stiles gently in the ribs. Derek knows by now that that’s the silent order to shut up.

“No, but I don’t want to have to see it,” John retorts. He doesn’t need any help. And Derek agrees, to be honest. He’s happy enough to be affectionate with them in public, but in front of the parents, he’s reserved. He’s still trying to impress them.

He doesn’t think that the two of them like this any better yet, but they’ve never said anything, and they’re still kind enough to Derek. That’s the most he can hope for right now. Maybe ever.

It doesn’t matter as much now that he knows Scott and Stiles will be waiting for him when he comes home every day.

“You boys all ready to go?” Melissa asks, entering the lounge, sliding an earring into her ear as she moves. She looks more done up than Derek has ever seen her; he can see the effort that’s gone into tousling her hair and applying the makeup she usually foregoes. He understands the room’s hushed quiet perfectly.

“Mom, you look amazing,” Scott says finally, when she watches them, confused. She blushes, but she’s clearly pleased.

“Seriously, you look awesome, Mrs. McCall,” Stiles adds. Unusually polite. John doesn’t even manage words, just looks at his feet like _Derek_ used to when he was shy, and he bites the inside of his cheek to keep from laughing.

He takes a step past the teenagers, his own suit soft against his skin (he’d been determined to look as nice as everyone else), holding the door open.

“Get out,” he orders the boys. “Go, seriously, we’re already late.” He’s well acclimated by now to being the adult, being the one who checks the time, and reigns in the crazy ideas. They do as told, for once, John following them out, but Derek hovers by the door.

“You look lovely,” he murmurs, voice low as Melissa passes by him. She grins, stands on her toes, and leans up to kiss his cheek. The action is old and familiar and he can’t remember the last time it felt like he had a mother. “So do you,” she counters, before hopping into the car with John.

Derek tries not to listen in, but he can hear that the man’s found his voice.

Stiles had wanted to take the Jeep, but Derek refused. They’d taken the Jeep to prom, and Derek had laughed his ass off when the rest of them all showed up in sleek BMWs and limos. They’re taking the Camaro this time. At least they’d have a little modicum of style.

“You’ve been sweet-talking my mother,” Scott murmurs into his ear when he slides into the driver’s seat, the boys already piled into the other side of him.

“I told the truth, that’s all,” he replies, voice just as quiet, turning the engine over. Scott grins nonetheless, presses a kiss to his jaw, before turning to press a kiss to Stiles’, in almost the same place.

“Holy _shit_ , we’re actually doing this,” the human bursts out. His heart rate picks up, and Scott immediately takes his hand, squeezing tight. He’s good at calming Stiles. “We’re, like, actually graduating. High school. This is a thing. This is gonna be the last time we’re at this place. Oh my god.”

Derek laughs, loud and clear, shaking his head as he follows the Sheriff’s car to the school, his own anticipation rising just as quickly as the teens’.

“Calm down,” he advises. “You’ve had ages to think about this, and it’s not like you’re graduating without a plan. We have a place to live, you have a guaranteed spot. It’s fine.”

Thank god for early acceptance, or they’d still be tearing their hair out for months. Derek’s good at being reasonable, he’s found out, and reasonable to the hysterics Stiles sometimes gets himself into is a good balance.

“Yeah,” Stiles agrees, his heartbeat levelling out again. Derek feels the same little burst of victory he does every time he manages to make either of them happy. “Yeah, no, this is awesome, I mean, I’m excited. No more _monster high_. Just crazy, y’know?”

He’s not even necessarily speaking to either of them anymore, just speaking aloud to reassure himself, but Scott answers anyway, his mouth curling into a grin.

“Hell yeah, we’re _adults_ now. Man, I can’t wait to get to LA. You have to learn how to surf with us, Der,” he gushes. Derek’s heard this before; they love discussing all their plans for LA. He nods, already having agreed weeks ago. He’s not totally sure he actually _will_.

“Dad says he’s gonna help us move in a few weeks. Says we should go down there for a weekend, though, check everything out. I think he means, like, where the Laundromat is, and the nearest grocery store, but _pfft_. We’re so checking out burger carts and bars and the _beach_.”

Stiles looks almost delirious with glee. They’re so goddamn happy that Derek can’t help but be the same.

“We should check out our campuses, too,” he adds, letting the childlike idealisation fill him up despite himself. “Find all your rooms. And there’s a bus out to mine, I wanna find that. Thank god I won’t be stuck with _freshmen_ like you,” he teases. The academy that accepted him let him use his past credits, landing him firmly in second year, with a few make up tests.

“Fuck you, you’re not cool enough for the freshmen,” Stiles retorts, though the smile doesn’t leave his face. “You’ll be one of those weirdo mature age people that come back when they get fired from their real jobs.”

“I’m _twenty-six_ , I’m not forty,” Derek snaps, but Scott’s hand on his thigh keeps him happy. “Not too old for you, am I? I could make friends with the freshmen, tell them I’ve got two of my own.”

“Or tell the truth, tell them you _belong_ to two.”

Derek’s cheeks flush, the way they always do when Stiles taunts him with that. He’s never quite getting used to how good it feels to acknowledge the truth of that, and Stiles loves making him all pink and flustered in public, pointing it out.

“Stop bickering,” Scott interjects, leaning forward. “We’re here.”

His voice falters, and they both catch it, him and Stiles, turning their respective ways to flick their eyes over Scott’s face.

“You OK?” Derek asks softly, laying a hand gently at the back of his neck. Scott’s pretty steadfast and tough – until he isn’t.

“Yeah,” the Alpha answers, but his voice shakes anyway, and he seeks out Stiles’ hand again, eyes forward, staring at the school. “M’fine. It’s just – really happening.”

“Yeah, but we get to do awesome stuff next,” Stiles murmurs, leaning in to nose at Scott’s neck. Any other time, Derek would make fun of him for mimicking their wolfish behaviour, but he moves to do the same, pressing kisses behind Scott’s ear gently.

“It’ll be fine. You’re right to be nervous, it’s a huge thing. But your Mom’s gonna be there, and John, and me. Find me in the audience if you feel scared,” he says quietly. “You too, Stiles.”

He’s stopped being surprised when they kiss him out of nowhere now. After two and a half months of it, he’s getting used to it. But he never stops liking it, especially not now, when Scott’s mouth on his is needier than usual. He barely has time to breathe after the kid pulls away before Stiles swallows up the one breath he took too, the tastes of them both mixing in his mouth.

“OK, OK,” he breathes, pushing Stiles back when he begins to lean in closer, a sure sign he wants more. “Save it for tonight, you have to go _graduate_.”

Scott steals one more kiss before they bound out of the car like they had last year, like eager puppies all over again. The difference is, this time, they don’t rush off ahead and leave him alone. Scott takes his left hand and Stiles takes his right and they lead him proudly into the auditorium, like he’s their favourite thing in the world.

This time around, he’s proud to be sitting in the ‘parents’ seats’, taking a seat beside John and Melissa. They’re both jittery, but he can feel the pride emanating from them, and he knows he’s reflecting it, too.

The ceremony is long, far too long, and before they even get past the ‘E’s, they’re all shifting uncomfortably in the hard seats, bored. It might not be entirely politically correct to say so, but John leans over and whispers, loud enough for just him and Melissa to hear.

“I really don’t care about other people’s kids, I just want to see mine,” he’s groaning quietly, and Derek shoots him a grin, privately agreeing. He could care less about the hundreds of nameless students up on stage. He gets a thrill when his other friends are called up: Lydia looks immaculate as always, but she’s managed to outshine them all in her robes. Allison’s more reserved than usual, and Derek can see she’s nervous. She’s going into the business with her father when this is over. He doesn’t approve. At all.

Kira glows, but he thinks maybe that’s just him picking up on her shining aura, not the wide beam she wears. When Isaac takes his diploma, Derek has to duck his head, because he doesn’t want anyone to see that his eyes are prickling. This is the closest he’s going to become to a parent at one of these things, and his chest feels so full of pride that he thinks it might burst open.

Melissa smirks on the other side of him, but it’s wiped off when Scott’s name is called, and she does the exact same thing, just for a second, before the tears actually overwhelm her, and she’s watching through bleary eyes.

He wants to laugh, but he’s so full to bursting with this indescribable, _stupid_ happiness that he can’t do anything but stare. Scott still looks nervous as he makes his way across the stage, and his eyes flick out over the crowd, seeking out Derek. When his eyes fall directly on him, he grins, and Derek can just _tell_ , if it wasn’t for the werewolf reflexes, he would have tripped.

He grins back, wondering if he looks as overwhelmed as he feels, but it hardly matters, because that’s not only his Alpha up there, looking to him for reassurance he’ll gladly give, it’s his – _boyfriend_. And he clings to that title more than either of the teenagers. Uses it more than either of them, even when they laugh at him for it. It’s a physical, real sign that they want him and they’ll keep wanting him.

Melissa’s still crying when Scott hops off the stage and disappears, and Derek slips his hand into hers tentatively, relieved when she squeezes and chokes out a wet laugh, nudging him gently. It’s more of a build-up this time around, waiting for Stiles. Now that he knows how fucking amazing it is to see them up there.

When it finally happens, John doesn’t even try to hide his tears, wiping them away and beaming so hard that his face looks sore after. Derek can pick up grief on the air as well, and assumes that the man is thinking of Claudia. Stiles was thinking of her earlier on.

Stiles is much more confident than Scott, though, bounding across the platform toward his diploma, robe billowing out behind him. He takes the paper, finds them in the crowd easily and waves, eliciting laughs. They all wave back, even if they look beyond stupid doing it.

It’s _agonising_ waiting for the rest of the names to be called, and for them to be released back to their families, but Derek manages to wait it out without too much of a struggle, letting out a breath of relief when he sees the stream of students, some crying, some laughing, and heading back toward the crowd.

Scott and Stiles, naturally, are loud and raucous and push past people, whooping and shouting to one another. Before they can pounce at anyone, Derek moves, faster than he really should, surrounded by humans, and throws his arms around whoever’s there first.

Stiles. He holds him close for a second, both their hearts wild, before Scott nudges Stiles out of the way and presses a hard kiss to Derek’s mouth, diploma clutched in one hand, the other wrapping round his neck.

“C’mon, that’s enough,” John admonishes after a few moments, but Derek ignores it for once, taking every second he can, Scott’s mouth hot and wet and hungry. Almost desperate. Tonight’s going to be memorable, that’s for sure.

Scott pulls himself off, finally, his face as flushed as Derek’s, and he can’t seem to stop grinning, overwhelmed with it all. He hugs Melissa while Stiles is still wrapped up in John’s embrace, and for once, still able to feel Melissa’s hand in his, he doesn’t ache for his own parents.

There’s no possible way for him to be any happier, he thinks, driving them out for celebratory dinner, the both of them chattering on deliriously to each other, their energy enough to drive away any melancholy he might ever feel, and for once, trapped in here with them, it dawns on him, that without even trying, he’s found it again.

Found his home.

**Author's Note:**

> Many, many thanks to my lovely beta, Allie (YouShineBrighter).
> 
> P.S. Huge thanks and hugs to everyone who left such lovely comments in wake of the nasty stuff. I adore you guys, you're the shining light in all this insanity.


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